


Small Town

by beyondcanon



Series: Small Town [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 04:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1731278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondcanon/pseuds/beyondcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brittany is the daughter of a ranch owner that Santana gets hired at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Town

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of [my prompt challenge on Tumblr](http://beyondcanon.tumblr.com/tagged/ma%27s-prompt-challenge). Some stories will be posted on AO3; this is one of them.

You leave the worker’s quarters by sunrise, every day.

There’s always a lot to be done.

Spring ended a few weeks ago and the heat creeps up everywhere; under a shadow, in the quarters, even the fridge seems to be having a hard time keeping itself cold.

Some nights the young ones go by the river for a swim. They wait an hour or two after dawn to make sure the water is cold enough, and bet on who can swim more yards.

You love those moments; you feel safe.

This small town is a tight community, welcoming enough to accept your presence when you arrived, dirty and silent on an old motorcycle, but respectful enough to not ask too many questions.

Youlike it there. It’s a good break from how things were before.

Youlike the vastness of the acres, too. You prefer this to waitressing at the local diner.You have no watch, no rush, no concerns other than a work well done.

The Pierce pickup truck passes by, and the boss honks at them with a throaty laugh; some of them wave.

You get dressed and gather your things.

The boss’ only daughter passes by, smiling at you; she knows everyone by name. She’s also more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen.

You get on your bike; it roars and moans, but it doesn’t let you down.

You haven’t been on the road for five minutes when you see the daughter’s truck. She’s outside, tall and lean like a dancer; she stares at her phone.

You stop, one foot on the ground. “Trouble?”

She looks at you, startled. “Um, yeah. My tire.”

You leave your bike by the side of the road and crouch down by the car. You use your small flashlight to take a look. “You’ve got a flat tire.”

She looks at you like you’ve just spoken Greek.

You almost smile. “Do you have a spare?” You ask; she nods. “A jack and a lug wrench?”

“A lug what?” She frowns; you bite your lip to hold back a smile.

Lucky her, you’ve always been a hands-on kind of girl. You took it from your grandfather. “Let me take a look at what you have.”

She has what you need. You take the tools and crouch down by the tire again. “Can you hold the flashlight?”

She holds it, resting her body against the car and watching you.

The night smells of fresh grass and mud. Neither of you say anything for the twenty minutes it takes you to change her tire.

You wish you weren’t wearing shorts so you could clean your hands on your pants and worry about it later.

She somehow realizes it and grabs an old towel from the seat. “Here.”

Your fingers brush against hers; her hand is velvet and silk, unlike yours. “Thank you,” you say, scrubbing your palms, between your fingers, until you’re a little more presentable.

“No, thank you, Santana.” She smiles, taking the towel from your hands and throwing it in the back. “I wouldn’t know what to do if you weren’t here.”

Your heart flutters a little when she says your name. “It’s nothing, Miss Pierce, reall—”

She shakes her head. “Brittany. Call me Brittany.”

“Brittany,” you say, enjoying the way her name rolls on your tongue. “See you around.”

—

You’re on your lunch break, peeling an orange under a tree.

You found an old radio a few days ago, abandoned on a shelf, and you took it with you. The station you’ve chosen for now seem to dedicate itself exclusively to ballads from the eighties.

The daughter arrives, radiant under the sun, long legs in denim shorts, cheeks full of freckles. Your hands stop moving of their own accord; you realize you probably look stupid holding a fruit midair.

“Hey,” she says, taking off her hat and sitting next to you.

You swallow dry and decide staring at your orange will be more productive. “Hey.”

She sighs and rests against the tree. “Summer’s been harsh.”

“Yeah,” you agree, cutting the orange in half and offering her some.

She accepts it, taking a deep bite and making little slurping sounds. You look at her with the corner of your eyes for a moment before eating your half.

She looks at you, her head tilting a little to the side. “Where are you from?”

“Does it matter?” You answer, shrugging.

She licks the drop of juice on the corner of her lip. “I guess it doesn’t.”

You both remain silent for a moment, listening to Cyndi Lauper. You try to think of things to say, but you’re at a loss.

“Do you want to go to a parade tomorrow?” She chews a little before continuing, “There’s a town real close that has a pretty good one.”

She bites her lip at your silence. “C’mon, you can’t miss the 4th of July.”

“Yes.” You bring yourself to say. “Sure.” Your heart is doing that thing where it seems to drift within your ribcage.

She smiles bright and big. “Great. I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“Yeah,” you agree dumbly.

She leaves like it’s no big deal.

—

You’re wearing a white muscle shirt and your favorite jeans, a worn and ripped pair you’ve had since you were 17.

You’re wondering if you should be more American when she arrives in a summer dress that manages to reference the American flag without being completely and utterly ridiculous. You’re amazed.

She rests her arm on the door and leans out the window, smiling like she’s known you forever. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you say, circling the car and getting in the passenger seat.

Her car smells just like her, of grass and amber. You like it.

She looks at you for a second, head tilted. “I’ll let you choose what we’re going to listen to if, and only if, you promise not to be quiet and mysterious.”

You try to protest. “I’m not mysterious!”

Her laugh is both gorgeous and contagious. “At least you know you’re quiet.”

You try not to blush. “I don’t always have something to say.”

She touches your thigh. She touches your thigh. Your thigh.

“It’s very okay.” She looks in your eyes one last time before starting the car. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

You clear your throat. “Okay.”

You look out the window and stare at the open field before you. Something about the sound of the engine and the smell of the car reminds you of your grandfather. “I was born in a small town in Ohio. I hated it. Small towns are good only and only if no one knows who you are.”

“Like you now.”

You nod. “Like me.”

She smiles at you. “There you go. Less mysterious. Did it hurt?”

You smirk at her teasing. “You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs and puts her sunglasses on. Her pretty long hair flies with the wind; you like it. “I’ll show you I am.”

You smile, changing stations randomly. You don’t know if it’s because she knocks you off your balance, but the car ride seems to take no time at all. You soon start spotting children disguised as the US flag, old overweight women trying to resemble pinups, and lots and lots of food trucks.

“We’re going to have ice cream,” she declares as soon as she parks. “Because tradition.”

You nod, looking around as you walk by her side.

“My mom used to dress me just like that,” she says, pointing to a small black girl donning a blue dress with stars. “She used to say it was the most beautiful part of the flag.”

“That’s nice,” you say. “Were your parents still married then?”

She nodded, taking you to a small, colorful ice cream shop. “They never divorced.”

You frown, trying to understand. If they had never divorced, why is her mother never around?

She reads into your silence. “My mom passed away when I was 10.”

Smooth. “Oh.” You freeze in place. “I’m sorry, I didn’t kn—”

“You couldn’t have known.” She touches your arm, thumb soothing your skin. “It was a long time ago.”

“Still.” You don’t know why you still try. “I’m sorry.” You should just keep your mouth shut for the rest of the day.

When you get to the counter you manage to distract her enough to pay for her ice cream.

“You shouldn’t have,” she says, but you can tell she’s delighted.

“It’s the least I can do.” You say, licking the sides of your cone.

She takes a napkin and cleans your chin with so much intimacy your entire face feels warm.

—

You’re tired, stuffed with food, and sharing your second ice cream cone of the day.

You’re at some square, a little distant from the main event, because she wanted to sit on a bench and breathe the space.

She rests her head on her hand, looking at you intently. You try not to notice.

“Thank you for today,” she says.

“You’re welcome,” you say. “It was a good day.” You take a long lick.

She’s still staring at you.

“I want to do something.” She licks her lips. “You can stop me if you want.”

She joins your lips. Your first instinct is to flicker your tongue and taste the chocolate on her inner lip. She seems to relax a bit with your reaction and kisses you again, slower this time.

You kiss her upper lip, her lower lip, until she’s taking a shaky breath and you’re deepening the kiss, swirling your cold tongue around hers.

She cups your face, scooting closer.

Her fingers are sticky from the ice cream, but you don’t mind.


End file.
